


What the Reed Whispered

by KrokoRobin



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Age Difference, Argonians, Assassination, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-04-19 22:28:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4763381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KrokoRobin/pseuds/KrokoRobin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"A pair of yellow eyes pierced through the darkness. In deadly terror, Das watched the Shadow raise a black, long blade that was still dripping with the blood of the Nord."</p><p>This is going to be a number of short consecutive stories that take place roughly 20 years before the events of Ties of Lapis. The tale revolves around the young Argonian Das, who had the fortune, or misfortune, to get closer than most to a man who many do not even get to catch a glimpse on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 Das had never heard the name of his mother. If father talked about her, and he did so seldom, but with reverence, he called her Veeskhleel. Ghost. Veeskhleel were the most fickle among Saxhleel. At least that was what father had always told him. They were impossible to capture, impossible to rely on, and volatile as the mist of the Murkmires. Even though he had never been sure how to take father’s stories, Das had felt injured over the way father would talk about mother. After all, if his mother had been Veeskhleel, wouldn’t that make him a Ghost as well?

 Anything was better than being a dock worker in a cold and sallow city like Windhelm. Das sometimes watched father for signs that he knew so as well.

 But father never seemed to mind. He endured the ice and snow, endured the slander of the Nord and the abuse of the Dunmer, all in silence. When Das had been a child and not yet given up on his father, he had asked the man why he never fought back. The answer always was a serene smile. Nothing made Das more furious than thinking about this calm expression in the face of helplessness.

 It had taken Das years to figure out that mother was not a Ghost in the literal sense. Talking to the Dunmer and Nord had given him all the wrong ideas. Their tales of ancestors in the ashes and afterlife in ardour were awry and grotesque. But Das could not really be blamed. What was he supposed to do, with father being as taciturn as he was? Only when Das spoke to one of the other Argonians working in the port, he learned that father had most likely referred to the Veeskhleel-Tzel, a certain tribe of Argonians living in the far south of the Black Marsh, close to the Coast of Secular Hists.

 “Now that you mention it, that would certainly explain why you look like death warmed up!”, the old Argonian woman said and scratched her brow, where the brittle skin she was not ready to shed already came off.

 “What are they like?”, Das asked, poking around in the chimney fire of the lodging, where they all lived cooped up like cattle.

 “They lead a quite reclusive existence. Lucky me has never seen one!”, the old woman grunted. “But from the stories I’ve heard, their scales are said to be of an iridescent and yet pallid white. Some say they are able to turn into the haze over the sea.”

 Das gave a long, wistful sigh. “One day I will look for them in the Black Marsh, and when I find them? I will join them”, he proclaimed.

 “Well, I never!” The Argonian shook her head. “A pleasant boy like you? I would not be happy to see you with them.”

 “And why is that?”, Das insisted.

 She hesitated visibly. She looked left and right, no doubt looking for Das’ father, until she lowered her voice and murmured: “Has your father told you about the burial and the roots of the Hist?”, she asked.

 “He told me that it is important for the Saxhleel to return to the consciousness from whence we came”, Das recited impatiently.

 “Yes, or their souls will be forced to haunt the eternal marshes”, said the woman with a nod. “When I was a young hatchling, my deceased cousin was to be buried with the roots of the Hist. But when he was to be put in the ground, his body was gone. I was too young to understand, but the faces of my elders… I will never forget them. You know what they whispered? It was the Veeskhleel-Tzel, it was the corpse thieves…!” Her large, opaque eyes gazed into the fire, dull like glass marbles.

 Had she meant to scare Das, she had succeeded in her endeavour. He had trouble falling asleep that night, and quite a few nights thereafter, fearing the Veeskhleel-Tzel would take him for a corpse and steal him. But what she almost certainly had not intended was that her story had only kindled his fascination with  _his kind_ , as he had taken to calling them.

 It was merely three years later and through sheer coincidence that he happened upon one of them. Or so he believed.


	2. Chapter 2

 The snow that fell over Windhelm that day was even colder than usual. The pale clouds were chasing through the sky like the restless souls of lost ships.

 Das had been allowed into the city to run some errands in the Gray Quarter. He had been instructed to return immediately after, but the sight of the staggering, heavy buildings and the crowd inside the city walls quickly made him forget all orders.

 He had watched the men and mer go about their business on the market and around the grand inn that was situated right in the centre of the city, before the large city gates. It was mostly the pale, thick Nord that looked as squat as their houses, and grey skinned, gaunt Dunmer, their faces in a constant contortion of disgust. Das could spot an Elf with golden skin among them. From his hiding spot behind a rack of fire wood right beside the alchemy shop, Das watched and studied them all.

 The air was filled with talk and laughter, noise from the forge and the yelling of the pitchmen in their stalls. Like ants they all crawled along between the giant, grey walls that loomed so high over Das’ head, he feared they would collapse and bury him underneath any moment. However, the thrill was exciting, as was the prospect of getting caught.

 Yet if any of the townsfolk spotted him, they made no effort to catch him. Even the guards, whose faces were hidden behind cold metal masks, did not seem to take notice of him.

 As the night descended upon the city and the large braziers were set ablaze, a strange quiet took hold of the streets. The market place and the square around the inn emptied as everyone fled from the icy wind into their warm, cozy homes. But Das still did not feel like going home. Everything was better than getting back and having to deal with the trouble he had caused. He would probably get punished by that bull necked Nord chargehand again, and his father would not even look him in the eyes afterwards.

 The anger that flared up in his stomach was hot enough to keep him warm as he stumbled through the empty alleys that were only lit by a few dim lanterns. Most of them were already extinguished by the harsh wind. At the other end of the alley, Das make out a figure. Even just from his stout, burly outline Das knew that it was a Nord coming from the dock gates. Despite the distance, he could smell the sweat and the mead breath emanating from him and wafting through the street.

 It was the chargehand.

 The blood in Das’ veins froze and his mouth felt completely dry all of a sudden. Was that man looking for him? If he found out that he had been doing nothing but lollygagging all day, what would he do to him? Apprehension took hold of Das. He could feel all his feathers standing up on end and he slowly backed away, in hope the man had not seen him yet. Das knew if he was spotted, he would have to spend the whole night out on the docks with no shelter and no cover. The Nord just had no idea how much the cold tormented Argonians.

 The snow still had not stopped. The wind was cutting into Das’ scales and making him slow and sluggish. He could not run, and the alley was too narrow to hide. The Nord passed a lantern, only a few yard now and he would definitely see him!

 Das could have sworn there was a whisper in his ear, when suddenly, out of nowhere, a large, dark shadow dropped down on the approaching man. Das could not suppress a yelp as he flinched back and hit his head against the wall behind him.

 There was no struggle, only the faint gurgling from the Nord who now laid sprawled on the cobblestones, blood seeping from his body into the yellow light cone of the lanterns and mixing with the snowdrifts on the sidewalk.

 The Shadow reared his head. Das knew he had been discovered, yet he did not dare to move a single muscle. He was caught in a rigour, and all he could do was watch the Shadow draw himself up to his full height and square his broad shoulders as he approached the trembling Das. In the dark, all Das could make out was that it was an Argonian, judging from the two large horns protruding from his head and the long, strong tail swishing behind him in controlled motions. He had to be shorter than the opponent he had just brought down, but for an Argonian, he was tall. His claws made no sound on the ground as he stepped closer. He smelled of moist soil and something that all Argonians smelled like, yet on him it was different, unfamiliar. Moreover, his swift movements were strangely unaffected by the cold.

 A pair of yellow eyes pierced through the darkness. In deadly terror, Das watched the other raise a black, long blade that was still dripping with the blood of the Nord. With his full body weight, the Shadow threw him against the wall. The blade was only inches away, but Das breathed in the rusty scent of the blood. He could have sworn the Shadow must have heard his terrified heartbeat drum in his chest.

 Could it be one of them? Had they found him before he had found them?

 Finally, a gasp escaped Das’ throat. “Veeskhleel-Tzel”, he whispered.

 The Shadow tilted his large, horned head. He bared two rows of razor sharp teeth as talked with a low, rumbling voice. “What is your name, little one?”, he asked in Cyrodilic tongue, but without the typical Argonian accent.

 “Das”, was the croaked reply.

 “Das”, the Shadow repeated. “You will tell no one”, he growled. “Do you understand?”

 All Das could do was nod his head, his throat lightly touching the blade with every movement.

 He heard a clicking sound from the Shadow as he inclined his head to the side again in what had to be amusement. He withdrew, suddenly leaving Das oddly cold and bare. Without a warning, the Shadow leapt up, grabbed onto the ledge of the house behind Das and quickly pulled himself up. Das could only crane his neck to catch a last glimpse of him.

 “Wait! You haven’t told me your name yet!”, Das yelled, his heart still pounding in his ears.

 The only answer was the whisper of the icy wind sweeping through the alley.


End file.
